


Have You Ever Heard A Song

by LokianaWinchester



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1959, Cute, Fluff, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Liverpool, M/M, Mutual Pining, OR IS IT, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Slash, Sickfic, Slash, but he gets over it, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokianaWinchester/pseuds/LokianaWinchester
Summary: Paul is sick and John takes care of him. Never would he have thought that this could lead to an epiphany, let alone bring on what would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.Now with flash-forward Epilogue!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a song with the same name. Have You Ever Heard A Song by The Ark.  
> It's beautiful and I think it fits this quite well :) Enjoy!

He was skipping school again. John knew, Mimi was going to give him hell for it, but he really could not give less of a damn about her. All he wanted to do was make music and he was going to have his way. Guitar slung around his back, he climbed onto his bike, squinting into the sun as he rode down the street. He did not squint because of the sun though. He squinted because his vision was abysmal, but the glasses were not part of his look and in addition to that, Mimi wanted him to wear them and if there was one thing he hated, it was agreeing with Mimi.

In reality, he did not know what he would do without her, but she did not have to know that. Nobody did. Except maybe Paul.

Paul looked through him, or at least John thought he did. He was not sure about what Paul actually knew, but he was grown up for his age. He was more mature than John in some sense. It was both disturbing and reassuring, if John was being honest.

It was disturbing because Paul was two years younger than him. Why would he be more mature? John supposed it was because of his mother. Maybe losing her at such a young age had been the reason for growing up fast. It had not done the same with John. Rather it had made him more rebellious, more childish as Mimi would say, than before.

It was also reassuring, because even though Paul was younger than him, they understood each other. John knew that their relationship would go nowhere if Paul was like him two years ago. They would constantly be on each other’s nerves, but Paul was exactly what John needed. It was like Paul was regulating John’s impulsiveness into something more manageable for both of them.

When he leaned his bike against the fence and rang the doorbell, his mind caught up to him. He was not the type of guy to be all fidgety in any situation, much less when he was simply going to see his best friend, but here he was, fumbling with the collar of his shirt for some inexplicable reason. Paul’s dad opened the door.

“John. Come in, lad. Don’t you have school?”

“Nah,” John lied. “Where’s Paul?”

“’e’s got the flu. Don’t wake ‘im up if he’s sleeping,” Jim said, ducking into the kitchen.

John made his way to Paul’s room, opening the door quietly, peering inside.

“John?” Paul’s voice was small, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, not at all asleep, but obviously ill.

“Yeah. The flu?”  John asked.

“Yeah, me dad thinks so. But I’m feelin’ good.”

John put the guitar on the chair in the corner before sitting down next to  Paul.

“You don’t look so good, Paulie,” he said. Paul looked up at him.

“Stop it with the Paulie… I wanna go outside.” It took John every last bit of self-control to resist the request.

“Yer dad’ll kill me,” he said, grinning at Paul. “I can play you some songs. Serenade you so you’ll fall for me, like all the birds.” Still grinning, he got up and took his guitar back over to the bed.

Paul’s cheeks were red, most probably from the fever he had, but John had to admit he looked so lovely, with the long lashes shadowing his eyes as Paul looked at the floor intently. Was he embarrassed? Was it something about John’s previous words? He fumbled with some chords for a bit, pushing all these thoughts away to ponder on them later.

As he began playing, Paul looked up at him and the admiring look in his eyes made everything worth it; skipping classes, bad grades and the following never-ending bickering he would have to listen to from Mimi. All that was nothing compared to this moment. Paul was admiring him.

The boy was better than John himself, no matter how much John hated to admit this and having his admiration meant the world to John. This was what he wanted to evoke in people. This sense of adoration, not only in Paul but in many people. That was his goal. But for now this was perfect.

There was a knock on the door and both Paul and John jerked back, suddenly conscious of their proximity.

“I’ll be off. I have some shopping to do,” Jim said. “You boys behave. I’ll be a few hours.”

They nodded.

“Of course, dad,” Paul replied. Jim shut the door again and the two remained sitting on the bed in silence until they heard the door fall shut.

“Let’s go outside.” Paul beamed at John. Who was John to even consider telling him ‘no’.

“Get dressed then, you git,” he said.

As it turned out Paul could not even make his way to the door.

“Yer too damn weak, Macca. What do ya expect me to do, carry you?” John said jokingly. They were never going to get anywhere if Paul could not even walk.

“Yeah, in yer strong arms, make me really feel like that bird you wanna serenade.” They laughed in unison, but that sentence did something to John. He pushed it away again. But the idea was not the worst, he had to admit. If Paul wanted to get carry by John, he was going to do it.

“Take the guitar,” he told Paul, who promptly slung it over his back. “Hop on.”

“What?”

John smirked at him.

“Yeah, I’ll carry ya. Hop on,” he repeated.

Paul was heavier than expected, but John reckoned that was because he saw Paul as skinnier as he was, after all he was a teenager and not that much younger than John himself, but he could carry him.

As he walked down the street, hands under Paul’s thighs, he felt soft hair tickle his neck.

“You alright back there?” he asked. A low hum from Paul was the only answer. A few minutes later he took a turn onto Yorkaster Road, where there was a small park. If he was being honest it was more of a pathway in the middle of some grass with some trees at both sides, than an actual park, but he and Paul came here sometimes and honestly John could not carry him much further.

“We’re here, Macca,” he said and felt the boy move suddenly.

“Did you fall asleep?” he asked, turning to Paul. Even though he shook his head, his bleary eyes told another story. John smiled as he slowly let go off Paul’s thighs, setting him down until he was sure he could stand.

He held his hand out.

“Guitar?” Paul handed it to him and John laid his jacket onto the damp grass, Paul following his example. Sitting down close to each other felt right.

John looked over at Paul and noticed his eyes become droopy again. He decided to just practice chords. John did not care if he was disturbing the neighbourhood or not, but what he did care about was Paul and he was obviously not in the mood for loud music. After a few rounds of 12-bar blues, simple chords, he started to hum along. He did not even stop playing when Paul’s head slumped against his shoulder.

It was a beautiful day, warm and barely windy, but when a cloud threw deep shadows over them, hiding the sun for ten, fifteen minutes, Paul shivered at his side and John immediately took notice. He took off his shirt, only an undershirt beneath it. Paul sat up, bleary-eyed.

“You don’t have to. I’m okay,” he said when he realised what John was doing, but when he kept insisting, pressing the shirt to Paul’s chest, until the younger boy took it and put it on with shivering fingers. John shook off his jacket, slipping it on, before helping Paul up and getting him into his own one.

“I gotta get you back home,” he said, handing Paul the guitar, before turning around, crouching down, so he could reach Paul’s thighs like before.

He seemed heavier now, but John eventually made it back to Paul’s.

Upon finally reaching his room, they both collapsed on the bed, leaving the guitar on the floor.

“Why did I wanna go outside?” Paul asked weakly, curling up with his blanket, shivering.

“Teenage rebellion,” John deadpanned.

Hesitantly, he rolled over, closer to Paul and gently stroked his shoulder, down his upper arm, to the nape of his neck. The younger boy stilled under his touch, apparently not even breathing, really.

“Relax, Macca, I just wanna get you warm, before yer dad can kill me.” Slowly, Paul unclenched his muscles, but it only led to more shivering. John leaned over him, taking the blanket out of his grip, draping it over him, tucking Paul in. Slowly the shivering died down and Paul started breathing more easily.

“Johnny?” his voice was so weak, almost breaking from pronouncing the single word.

“Yeah?” John asked quietly.

“Stay?” Paul’s lips were barely moving anymore.

“I gotta go home or Mimi’ll throw a fit,” John laughed, but there was no doubt in his mind that if Paul asked him to stay forever, he would. Without questioning it. Without hesitating.

“No, just… Now… for a bit.”

It was only four in the afternoon. Mimi would not expect him to be back for a while anyway, so he settled close to Paul.

“Yeah, Paulie, I’ll stay.”

When he was sure, Paul was asleep, he untangled himself from the covers, getting out of bed. He quietly got his guitar off the floor and softly closed the door behind himself, heading to the front door.

“You boys had fun?” Jim asked, startling John.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s asleep now,” John replied. Jim nodded in acknowledgement, opening the door for John.

“Have a nice day, Mr McCartney,” he called over his shoulder as he got on his bike.

“It’s Jim, boy,” he heard the man muttering behind him.

John laughed out while he rode down the road.


	2. Chapter 2

He came home and Mimi immediately had him sitting down for tea.

“Where have you been all day?” she asked.

“School,” he lied. “Then Paul’s.”

She looked at him sceptically. “That boy.”

“Yeah, what about ‘im?” John countered. He knew Mimi did not like Paul or any of his friends, really, but it still upset him.

“Do you have to see him every day?”

John scoffed. Of course Mimi would not understand.

“Yeah,”

“And where’s your shirt?” she asked, lips pressed together tightly; no good sign.

“What’s it to you?” he said, getting up and storming away to his room, leaving his dinner half-eaten on the kitchen table.

Once in his room, he fell onto the bed and closed his eyes. Paul’s face flashed through his mind. John would give everything to be with him now. Fights with Mimi always left him feeling broken. He liked to pretend like he hated her or something, but really he craved her validation and it hurt that she did not like his passion of music or his friends. It hurt and when John was hurt he wanted Paul to be there, because Paul was soothing. Paul was the same as him. He pretended to be all tough, but on the inside, he was gentle, he was sweet. John had realised from the start that Paul was not as tough as he seemed, but only recently Paul had entirely opened up to him. It had started when Julia died; Paul had helped him so much then. And now John depended on him.

John rolled around, pressing his face into his pillow, hugging it close. He did not like this dependence, especially because there was more to it. He was dependent on Mimi, too, but with Paul it was entirely different.

John thought back to earlier in the day, to how Paul had looked at him. To how his body had felt pressed against John’s through the covers. Some part of him wished that this was normal for them, that he could hold Paul close. Always.

He sat up, confused. Where was this train of thought going? He was not sure but he did not like the direction of it. He sounded like a queer in his own mind. Like some love-stricken bird. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed.

“Fuck.” There was nothing more he could say. Talking to himself was not really his forte; Mimi had far too sharp ears for him to ever discuss his problems with himself.

If only he knew what his problem was. Paul was still his best mate, this was all normal. But even while he thought this, he knew he was lying to himself. Paul was more than a friend to him. John’s constant need to be near him, to please him, should have made this clear long ago, but there was more.

The look of admiration he had seen in Paul’s expression was what he wanted to see on infinitely many people’s faces. He wanted to spread that with his music, he wanted few things more than that, but at the same time, he knew that if everybody hated him and his music, and only Paul was going to look at him like this, he would still be fine.

Similarly, it was clear that if the whole world, except Paul adored him, it would still mean nothing to him. John sighed again. This was not good at all. Next thing he knew, he would think how beautiful Paul was. Ridiculous.

And then he remembered the gently flushed cheeks, the deep brown eyes, the long lashes, the plump lips and suddenly everything seemed less ridiculous. Terrifying would be more appropriate.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“John Winston Lennon, watch your mouth!” Mimi called. That woman really heard too well for her own good.

“Shut it,” John said as he buried his face into the pillow.

There was only desire on his mind. It was not even bodily, he did not want to shag Paul after all, at least not first and foremost... Maybe he would not mind it. No, mostly his desire for Paul was just the desire for him to be there, the desire to touch him and make sure he was really present and okay. It was the desire to look in his eyes and tell him how much he meant to him. It was the desire to hold him, without being judged. But that was still sick, right? That was the absolute worst thing he could desire, because he could not justify where those desires came from. If he wanted to fuck Paul it would be because of his beautiful lips, or the roundness of his butt, or the swing of his hips, or the memory of how Paul’s thighs had felt in his hands; all this could be because Paul was just a tad more feminine than other guys. But it was not that, not most importantly. John was terrified of what he realised about himself.

But the worst thing about it all was that he could not tell anybody about it. Queers were sick. There was something wrong with them. John was not like that, but he wanted to talk about it with the one person he could never tell. Paul would be able to calm him down, he would soothe him as he usually did, but now John needed to get through this on his own. He hated everything about it, but most of all himself.

This could not possibly be what he was. After all he had never felt this way before. Nobody else had this kind of influence on him or evoked this kind of reaction. It was just Paul.

It was just Paul.

It was _just Paul._

This sentence was the mantra his mind kept repeating over and over until he eventually passed out in the early hours of the morning.

Usually Mimi could not be bullshitted, but John seemed to look bad enough from not sleeping enough, the next morning, that she believed him when he said he was ill. He did not want to move, did not want to do anything. Not even make music, not even see Paul. It was agonising because he wanted nothing.

Looking back on it, the decision of staying home, had been a bad one. He wished he could find a diversion from the thoughts that plagued him all day.

When the afternoon rolled around, he found motivation to make some music, but it was not easy because everything reminded him of Paul.

When he turned to his notebook, he scribbled a few drawings down, letting out the creative energy he could not release through music. Then the lyrics came and before he knew it, he had three new songs conceptualised.

He passed out shortly after, waking up only, when Mimi came to bring him his tea, but the tiredness did not fade, so he fell asleep again after wolfing down his potatoes and pie.

The next day he actually went to his classes, although he kept more to himself, still dwelling on his thoughts. Thinking about Paul was becoming easier. It did not disturb him anymore. He was still shaken in his own identity, but he was sure now, that Paul was an exception; an exception he could ignore. He was determined to see how Paul was doing the next day. He was not yet ready to face him after the revelation, but he could not put off seeing him any longer without it seeming suspicious. He needed to keep whatever had come over him under the wraps, he needed to be okay, he needed to work on that.

As he pulled up to Paul’s house the next day, he felt jittery again. It reminded him of the last time he had been there, how he had felt the same. There had been no reason then, he told himself. And there was no reason now.

Paul opening the door, beaming at him, changed everything. John was suddenly sure of his feelings. Nothing could be wrong with him after all. This was more all-consuming than anything else in his life. He loved Paul so much, that it transcended whatever else he loved. This feeling could never be a bad thing or plain wrong.

Paul was obviously feeling better, judging by the excited look in his eyes and the fact that it was him opening the door.

“Come in, Lennon,” he said jokingly, extending an arm gesturing inside. John laughed and followed the invitation.

They had a great time that afternoon, rehearsing new songs they could show the others at the next practice. Paul was back to his usual self and so was John. But this did not change how John suddenly knew he felt. It did not change how John had to force himself to look away from Paul’s skilled fingers, stopping himself from wishing they would run through his hair.

He had to avert his gaze, when Paul looked up, so he would not see how John started at his beautifully proportioned face, blurry because he was not wearing his glasses, but beautiful nonetheless. He wished for that face to be closer, so he could see it clearly, so he could feel Paul’s breath mixing with his own.

He had to close his eyes when Paul did look up to him and held his gaze, when the brown of his irises seemed to pull him down into the pit that was Paul.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice screamed at him to stop acting like a bird and make some music productively, but he could not care less as he let himself find happiness in the inescapable situation he was trapped in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy McLennon Day!!

What John had not calculated into being okay with his situation, was that Paul knew nothing about it. And when he was alone with Paul, that was not so bad; after all, when it was the two of them, he could pretend.

John was good at pretending. He had always been, making his own life better in the process.

Being alone with Paul, he could pretend that he told him and that Paul accepted him and even returned his feelings, he could imagine that nothing would change to the worse, that they would continue to do the things they did and then afterwards they could make out.

That never happened, of course, but this wish not coming true, was less of a disappointment than what he felt when they were not alone.

John knew he could get jealous, but he would not have thought that that was applicable to somebody he had no right to get jealous about. All of a sudden he noticed how many girls looked Paul’s way, how they flirted with him and he flirted back. It was infuriating to witness it, but it was more so to be absolutely unable to change anything about it. Paul noticed, of course.

“What are you acting all weird about, John?” he asked. They were sitting on John’s bed. Mimi had not been home, so Paul had come in without anybody making a fuss about it.

“Nothin’,” he replied. It was worth a try, he supposed. Paul would probably know that he was lying but he needed time to come up with an excuse.

“Ahh, stop fucking with me, Lennon,” Paul laughed. Why was he so smart?

Then again, if he was not as smart, John would not see in him, what he did. It was a curse and a blessing at the same time.

“All the birds goin’ crazy about you, Macca. Ya leave none for good ol’ me.” He tried to make it sound light, but he was not sure if he had succeeded.

“You jealous?” Paul asked, eyebrows raised, smirk firmly planted on his face.

John did not dignify the question with an answer.

“That’s stupid, John, you really got nothin’ to worry about, everybody’s goin’ crazy about you,” he said. The smirk was still there and John wished what he was saying was true. That everybody was going crazy about him. It would include Paul.

At his ongoing silence, the other continued.

“Those birds yesterday…” He squinted, looked out of the window in thought.

“Five of ‘em… One was dead set on me and two fancied Pete, but the other two were eyein’ you like mad,” Paul said.

John frowned.

“Yeah, they were, don’t look like that. Just ‘cause ya don’t notice doesn’t mean the birds aren’t still after you.”

“Hm,” John muttered. This was not exactly what his problem was, but at least Paul bought it, so he did not have to think of any more excuses.

“Maybe you should wear your glasses. ‘s easier to see then, y’know,” Paul blurted out.

“Hey!” John exclaimed, tackling him in a play-wrestling match. “Don’t be rude to your elder,” he said in a mocking posh accent, which sent Paul into a giggling fit.

The proximity was good and so bad at the same time. John was finally getting what he was yearning for; touches, skin to skin contact as Paul surrendered and looked up at him. He was still giggling, but he stopped squirming beneath John. Their eyes met and suddenly the laughter faded from both of them. For a second, John was not sure if he could resist kissing Paul, but he had to. He had to. He took a deep breath and blinked himself out of that mindset.

He cursed at himself internally, as he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Without looking at him, he could tell that Paul was doing the same, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. There was no way Paul had not noticed that something was off. But he did not mention it. Instead he got up and got his guitar from where it was leaning against the wall next to the door. John reached over to get his own guitar.

They got into their music pretty easily. One just strummed the starting chord of a song and the other jumped in the next second. They were in tune beyond their music and it allowed John to forget about his mistakes and problems.

They were having a great time, improvising lyrics they did not know, trying to outdo the other in how silly, senseless or dirty they could make them, while still staying in tune and rhythmically correct.

When John heard the front door open and shut, he hushed Paul. He knew if they continued like this, Mimi would end it immediately, so they needed to be more quiet, so Paul could stay. So they could spend more time together.

Paul was playing a softer tune, something melodic when Mimi peered into the room.

“Tea’s at five-thirty,” she said crisply. John understood it as exactly what it was; Mimi checking in on them, making it clear that she was there so that they would not be so loud. It was also a very polite request for Paul to leave before tea as well as that actual information for John. Sometimes he wished he had this ability to be this polite and rude at the same time, maybe he would get further with it, but the need he had to get snarky and give off witty remarks, was too strong.

John rolled his eyes and gave a nod, which luckily resulted in Mimi closing the door and not a lecture about eye-rolling.

He looked over at Paul pulling a grimace, which had his face lighting up, before he laughed out, slapping a hand over his mouth immediately.

“Leaves us about an hour,” Paul said, taking a look at his watch when his laughter died down.

John nodded. “You got time tomorrow? I thought we’d have the band practice again before the gig next Saturday.”

Paul thought about it for a moment.

“Yeah, I think so. Should be alright with me brother stayin’ at a friend’s,” he answered and shot John a smile that made him melt instantly. Paul lifted the guitar strap over his head, putting it next to the bed. John followed his example and got up to get some paper and a pen. At the top of the page he scribbled _Set_ , then he passed it on to Paul.

He was concentrated as he wrote down a few songs. They were going to do about fifteen songs, it was mostly their usual stuff, but they liked to change up some songs every now and then, especially to do new ones and mix up the order, so that regulars did not get bored.

As Paul passed the list back to John, he skimmed the songs, then wrote down the rest, before handing it back to Paul to look it over as well.

“Roll Over Beethoven? Really? George isn’t ready to play that, John.”

He knew that, but they had wanted to play it for months now and somebody had to give George a kick in the ass in that regard.

“Yeah. We’ve been on that since March, Macca.”

Paul remained silent.

“You got somethin’ to say?” John asked. It came out harsher than he planned.

“Yeah, and I just said it I don’t think we can play that song.”

Paul leaned in close, too close, eyes drilling holes into John’s skull.

“But I do, Paul. I bloody well do,” he pressed out. He hated disagreeing with Paul, but he was also stubborn and he wanted the song on the set list.

Paul was close enough that John could see him clearly even without glasses. It was excruciating to be so near and yet so far from what he wanted. Paul was still glaring at him.

“Well, I won’t play it,” he hissed at John.

“Then we’ll do it without you,” John shot back. It was too easy, fighting with Paul. They were bickering all the time, playful insults going back and forth, so switching to real insults was way too easy. Way too easy it was, to make the words sting.

“You couldn’t, not without me. You’re the one we could do without, so just shut up.”

It hurt. John was supposed to be the mean one, the witty one; the asshole to be frank. But Paul had learned from the best and now John was desperately trying to come up with a retort.

“Make me.”

Paul moved suddenly and John jerked back, thinking he was about to get hit, but instead, Paul’s hands aimed for his shoulders, throwing John off balance, keeping him pressed into the mattress as he leaned over him.

John completely froze when Paul kissed him.

“Fuck,” he said as Paul pulled away. It felt so right.

The younger boy looked terrified, moving away from John.

“No, no, Paulie, come back. Please,” John was barely aware of how desperate he sounded. He sat up and grabbed Paul’s shirt, pulling him closer again. He saw the insecurity flashing in Paul’s eyes when he leaned in.

But then, when their lips touched, it was gone. Paul kissed him with a burning intensity, with so much need that John was sure absolutely sure he was not the only one with those feelings. When Paul’s lips opened and John felt his tongue against his lips, he knew he was lost. Sliding a hand into Paul’s silky hair, John felt like this was all he needed in his life. Somebody who felt as he did in every way. Except maybe about Roll Over Beethoven. Laughing, he broke the kiss.

Paul looked at him, confusion written on his face.

“Nothin’,” John mumbled and placed another peck on Paul’s lips, who surged forward and pushed John onto his back again, climbing halfway on top of him to continue making out.

John pulled on Paul’s soft hair between his fingers, eliciting a small noise from him. It was beautiful and he wanted to hear it again, over and over.

Letting his other hand wander down Paul’s side made him squirm on top of John; he moaned into their kiss, when John slipped his hand under the shirt to touch his bare skin.

John was so caught up with how gorgeous Paul looked and felt, how he tasted and sounded, that he nearly missed the approaching footsteps.

In the last moment, just a second before the door opened, he pushed Paul off and sprang to his feet, running a trembling hand through his hair.

He hoped he did not look too dishevelled, because Mimi was already annoyed.

“What did I tell you?” she said and frowned at them.

“We were just packing up,” John said, his voice almost failing him.

Mimi huffed and walked back down the hallway. John turned to face Paul who was sitting on the bed, looking a bit dazed.

“Let’s get you out of here,” John said. Paul nodded, getting to his feet. He picked up his guitar and wanted to step out of the room, but John grabbed his arm and pulled him back to plant one last kiss on his lips.

John was less than coherent for the rest of the day, but when he had trouble falling asleep that night, he knew it was for all the right reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for mistakes, I have NO idea when they started doing Roll Over Beethoven but hey :))  
> 


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Boys.

He felt as if pure adrenaline was running through his veins. He was sprinting up the last flight of stairs at full speed. Behind him, John heard distant screams, that blended together into a noise unlike any other he knew. It was exhilarating, being up on those giant stages, doing exactly what he wanted; making music, money, and people happy.

But most importantly, he was not alone. He had the best friends with him at all times. George, who had grown up so much in the last five years, and Ringo.

But most importantly, he had Paul. And he made Paul happy.

John often thought back to what he had thought back when he was eighteen, in his bedroom in Mimi’s house. He needed nothing more than Paul’s admiration. It had been true five years ago and it was still very much true now. Nothing was more important to him than Paul; John doubted that anything would ever be. Paul, who he loved more than anything, who he had taken to Paris to spend the most amazing of times with, in the city of love. Paul, who had changed so much, but only for the better, who was now more gorgeous than ever. Paul, who he could spend hours, days with, without getting bored, who he would gladly spend the rest of his life with. Paul, who was running up the stairs of their hotel just a step behind John, both of them sweaty, exhausted and yet so full of life.

Paul was more than a friend to him; he had been since that one afternoon. They had their problems, their quarrels and fights, but they got through everything and came out on top. Just like they had done with their music.

Paul was his muse, John had realised quite some time ago. The man inspired him more than anything else.

They were standing in front of the door to their suite, two bedrooms all to themselves. Paul angled for their key in his pocket while John watched him.

He was beautiful. His damp hair was clinging to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed. Heavy breaths were coming quickly, nearly shaking his whole body. He turned to look at John with those deep brown eyes, that made John believe that there were good things in the world.

The key was dangling from his finger as his lips split into a wide grin. John had known this man for close to seven years now and he was still not used to his ways. He knew they were technically still in public, but the hallway was empty, everything was quiet, safe for the distant screams of fans outside the building.

John leaned in for a kiss. Paul responded eagerly, lips moving against John’s, but he kept it chaste. It was not safe here.

The younger man pulled back after a moment.

“Just a second,” he said, while trying to turn the key with trembling fingers. When he finally succeeded and opened the door, John stepped into the room, knowing Paul was following right after him. The second the door fell shut, John spun around on his heel, embracing Paul in a tight hug. Immediately, he felt the other man’s arms return the tight hold. John sighed. He nuzzled his nose into Paul’s neck, inhaling deeply. Sweat.

They were both sweaty, coming off stage, but John could not care less. It was Paul.

“I love you, Paul. I love you so much. I love you, love you, love you.” John mumbled against the soft skin, while one hand crept into Paul’s hair.

Paul huffed out a laugh.

“Oh sod off, Lennon,” came his reply, but John knew better. He was fully aware of how much Paul liked being told those words.

“But I love you, Paulie,” John almost purred in a mock-sweet voice. He was going to play along if Paul wanted to pretend to be hard to get.

John could almost feel Paul rolling his eyes. It was amazing, knowing another person this intimately and not finding a single flaw. He moved just the barest bit until he felt the warm skin of Paul’s neck under his lips. Gently, he began peppering it with kisses, sucking lightly, working his way up to Paul’s jaw.

“Tell me, you love me too,” he said. The mocking tone was gone from his voice. He knew Paul did, but he needed to hear him say it nonetheless. The desire to hear these soft words fall from Paul’s lips again and again was overwhelming and maybe that was the reason he was so eager to say them himself. John lifted his head to face Paul and all his beauty. Impatiently, he pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then the other corner, before he sealed his lips over Paul’s plump ones, kissing him deeply.

“Please,” he whispered when he broke the kiss.

“Of course I do, you slow git.” Paul smiled. Their faces were so close that John could feel the words on his skin. It was addictive. His eyes still closed, he hummed a single acknowledging sound.

“Of course I love you,” Paul repeated, “You should know that I do.”

John should. And he did. He knew it more surely than anything else in the world.

Paul closed the distance again, lips working their magic just like they had nearly every day for the past five years. It was perfect.

They did not break apart abruptly. It did not work like this for them. They needed time, gradually less heated kisses, chaste pecks to get them off the high they were on; to throw them off of cloud nine.

John loosened his grip around Paul, shrugging off his suit jacket and throwing it over the couch. He shook his head at his own smell; his shirt was still half damp.

“I’m showering first,” he said. Paul smiled at him and nodded. Everything about him made John’s heart nearly explode in his chest. Even though everything was blurry to John, he could still always make out Paul, his moods, his expressions. He needed it. Paul was like his compass in some ways; a kind of social compass.

John quickly got rid of the rest of his clothes, that were sticking to him all over. The shower was a blessing. He felt resurrected, reinvigorated and most importantly, he did not reek of sweat anymore. After towelling his hair down, he threw on some underwear and an old t-shirt and headed to the bedroom they shared. He smiled as he saw Paul skipping to the bathroom as if he was excited for a simple shower.

Suddenly John was sleepy. As soon as his head hit the pillow, his eyes fell shut. Usually he could stay awake for hours after a concert, but tonight was not one of those times. The blankets were so soft, the pillows exactly right, but he could not fall asleep. Not all the way, because something was missing.

In his dazed, half-asleep state of mind, he spent more time realising that something was wrong, than actually trying to find out what. Luckily this question was answered for him when Paul crawled under the covers next to him. Not the heaviest pull of sleep could have prevented John from cracking his eyes open to look at him.

Up close, he saw everything. Dimly, he wondered if he was ever going to stop realising how beautiful Paul was, but in the same moment he knew there was no way.

Paul was turning him into the biggest sap and John was helpless against him. Slowly, he moved, to kiss Paul lazily, pulling back seconds later. The younger man was lying on his side, face inches from John’s. His eyes were closed and John was tempted to count all the single lashes. Paul’s hair was falling messily all across his head, not styled in any way, not even dried off properly, so that John could watch a single drop of water escaping from a strand at Paul’s cheek. It made its way over his soft skin to the tip of his nose, when a hand came up from beneath the covers to wipe it away. Paul rested his hand on the pillow, next to his slightly parted lips that were so inviting, so beautiful, that John leaned forward to kiss them once more. Paul’s hand moved from the pillow to the back of John’s neck, brushing through John’s own damp hair as Paul kissed him back.

“Stop looking at me, Johnny,” Paul mumbled between two kisses.

“Doesn’t feel like lookin’ to me,” John said and Paul lightly pulled on his hair in response.  
“Don’t sass me Lennon and go to sleep,” Paul said softly. There was no sting to his words, they were acting like a gentle caress to John’s soul.

“I love you,” he said one last time.

“I love you too,” he heard when he closed his eyes and started drifting off.

_More than you know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are So Soft, can you believe? It's kinda ooc for John but tbh if they had gotten together in '59 who knows how he would have turned out to be later :)  
> This story is now done and I'm quite happy with how it turned out. Comments and/or kudos are greatly appreciated as always (helping me through my exams and life) and if you would like to give me a prompt, you can either leave it in the comments as well, or come to my tumblr (lokianawinchester or the-silver-beetles... either is fine :* )  
> Thank you for reading!


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